


EW drabbles

by Apprehended (SinsAndTriggers)



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Death, Other, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 14:44:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11625750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinsAndTriggers/pseuds/Apprehended
Summary: Another compilation of Eddsworld stories no one particularly asked for.Requests are always welcome.





	1. Chapter 1

Sirens blared throughout the base, and the sound of soldiers grabbing guns and running from the building echoed. The sound of boots against the concrete floors were perhaps even louder than the sirens themselves, but no one seemed to particularly notice. Their focus was getting out, armed and ready to fight if there were enemies waiting to ambush them. They were trained better than to flee like rats. They were the Red Leader's soldiers, they were soldiers of the Red Army.

There had been reports of a missile launched, headed for their exact location. The Red Leader suspected a traitor in their numbers, how else would their base's location be leaked? Whether it be a traitor with them now or a traitor captured and tortured for information, a traitor was a traitor in the Leader's opinion. Traitors had to be dealt with accordingly. However, he wasn't worried about that.

The only man in the base not running for guns and the escape route was the Red Leader himself. He stood, posture straight and arms folded neatly behind his back, calmly listening to his two closest soldiers, his pilot and copilot, beg him go come with them. He didn't utter a word as they, as respectfully as possible, attempted convincing him to flee with them, and the rest of the soldiers.

The general then turned his head, slowly at first, to look at the partners with his remaining eye, his left eye. He shook his head once, turning to face them fully. They straightened their postures, their words dying on the tips of their tongues as they watched their commander. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of endless siren and bootfalls, he spoke. 

"You two are dismissed, soldiers." His metal arm waved once, as if dismissing the thought of leaving with them. "Go." The last word was an order, and his tone hardened to show such. There was a hesitance between the two men before him, one in which they exchanged the briefest of glances. The general thought he'd have to throw them out for a moment before they both saluted him. "Yes, Sir." Their response was almost in unison. He watched as pilot and copilot turned, running out of the room as instructed, guns slung along their backs and resting at their sides. 

The leader watched them leave, then heaved a sigh. It was the last time he was going to dismiss them, or anyone in this army again. He'd already made his peace, as it were. He pulled a cigar from his pocket, along with a lighter. Pulling it up to his lips, he lit it, taking a long puff of it to make sure it lit. Letting the smoke float lazily from his mouth, he calmly walked to his desk in the middle of the dim room, pulling his chair out before sitting in it. It screeched against the floor, though he purposely made the noise, and there was a faint deflating noise as he sat in the worn leather.

He set his lighter aside on the wooden surface of the desk, his eye taking one look around his quarters. A bed, messily thrown together from nights he did end up sleeping, lay in the corner, out of sight of nearly any soldier reporting in. Next, his eye fell on his bulletin board, a large one at that, with papers scribbled in messy Norwegian tacked anywhere they could fit. On the other wall was a gun rack, though a single gun wad missing; it was his revolver, which rested at his side. His revolver, though small, was his favorite. A map hung on the wall, scribbled on in various permanent markers and stuck with a wide assortment of pins.

Lastly, his eye fell onto his desk, where once again papers were thrown haphazardly in piles wherever they could fit. One would think being the leader of an army would force him to keep organized, but even his filing cabinets were a mess. On his desk lay a dirty ashtray, and ashes littered a corner of the wood. Buried under the papers was another map, though smaller, but held the same marks on it. That wasn't what he was worried about, however.

He reached down to the bottom left drawer, opening it to reveal a photo, neatly framed. Te took it out, though he kept his hold on it, not letting it touch the top of the desk once. It was polished, neatly shined and kept in exceptional condition. It was obvious it was one of great sentimental value. The picture resting inside the frame held three figures; a man in green, a man with a green overcoat over a purple hoodie, and a man with a blue hoodie. The one adorned in green was smiling the widest as he held the camera from which it was taken from, the next largest smile coming from the second tallest- the ginger. The smallest came from the man who's eyes were completely black, but it was still there.

The leader took a drag off the cigar, flicking the ashes into the ashtray. Smoke drifted through the air as a single emerald eye looked over the framed memory in his hand. A smile had crept onto his lips as he brought the cigar back to his mouth. He closed his eye a split second, one in which he blinked for the briefest of moments, before he began chuckling. Had anyone heard it, they would have described it as . . . Almost sad. He shook his head the subtlest bit, his voice ringing clear through the empty room. 

"So long, old friends."

It was the last thing he uttered before he felt himself get caught in the blast from the rocket, before he heard the explosion and fire consuming every last thing he worked for.

He didn't let go of the picture once.


	2. Chapter 2

To say the robot mission was a failure was, in all honesty, a severe understatement. Tord had been left completely blinded from debris, his left side scarred and bloody, his arm mangled to the point where it was obvious it wasnt going to survive with the rest of him. Thank God Patryk and Paul had been there to pick him up after the crash; there was no guarantee he would have survived otherwise. 

When they had found him, he was delirious, and he'd already lost a lot of blood. They didn't notice his blind eyes yet, instead focused on his heavier wounds on his left side. In all honesty, he was lucky to have survived the crash at all. 

They had wrapped his wounds in gauze best they could, attempting to buy him time. Enough time to get him back to the base for immediate medical attention. It was unclear as to when he'd fallen unconscious, but his groans of pain didn't cease even as he fell into an almost comatose like sleeping state. To say he looked absolutely terrible was, also, an understatement. He was horrific; almost the stuff of nightmares.

He was immediately rushed to the med bay upon arrival to the base. His left arm had to be amputated, nothing but the socket remained by the end of the surgical process. They didn't add on the robotic arm yet, instead waiting for him to regain consciousness, and to approve of such a dramatic change of his anatomy. 

It was nearing the third day before he regained consciousness.

His blood chilled as he opened his eyes, met with absolutely nothing. It didn't take him long to realize he'd been blinded, and the doctors figured it out within moments after Tord himself had. Their leader was maimed, blinded. They exchanged a glance; protocol called for removal of duty with such severe injuries. They all knew it. 

Protocol also called for Tord to be executed.

It was Patryk and Paul who saved him; as Tord's highest ranking soldiers, the army would have gone to them. They saved him from being executed on the spot, and even had him recover a few more days before they let him go.

Ever since being dropped off, he was a changed man. He was blind, maimed, and entirely crushed. His army, his pride and joy, had been ripped from him, and he was left to fend for himself. He had no where to go- he couldn't return to Edd, not after what he'd done, and certainly not like this.

He knew Edd, and his old friend would have pitied him, even after destroying the house, killing Jon, trying to kill Tom, and lying about not needing any of them. Edd was a good man.

Even if Edd pitied him, helped him, Tom would most certainly finish the job.

Perhaps a part of him wished the dark eyed male would.

All too suddenly, hands seized him, voices yelled at him so loudly his ears rang and his mind played catch up, and then he registered the sound of a multitude of guns being prepped for fire.

The police.

He couldn't keep up with everything happening, and he let himself be yanked along like a rag doll. He'd lost all fight in him when he lost his army. What was the point of fighting for nothing? 

 

Everything had been one blur, and soon enough he found himself bound and on his knees. The floor was cold and hard- stone perhaps? Maybe even cement. There was a stale, bitter scent in the air, and the blind man couldn't place it. It smelled almost metallic, but not quite. The musky scent of mold was easily distinguishable.

He was dead silent as someone spoke; the voice was cold, hard, much like the floor. It was uncaring. What else would he have expected? They spoke of his crimes. Why he was here. He didn't pay attention, instead mulling over everything he'd wished to say before he died. 

He wanted to explain himself. Explain his army, explain why hed done everything he had. He wanted to tell everyone he appreciated everything theyd done for him, thank them for everything. Patryk, Paul, Edd, Matt . . . Even Tom. But he wanted to apologize, most of all.

He didn't utter a single word when prompted, however. He didn't raise his head, nor made a single sound. He was going to die. He knew that. The sound of a gun clicking met his ears, louder than anything before. 

With the crack of the gun, the bullet found home in his head. He felt no pain, he didn't make a single noise. He only collapsed, blood pooling around his head, and staining his clothes.

A single final message rang through the broadcast; Tord Larsson, leader of the notorious Red Army, was dead.

 

 

Edd watched, wide eyed, as his old . . . Housemate was put to death. The gunshot rang in his ears, the words echoing in his ears. Tord was dead. They'd killed him, broadcasted it through his show, and left him dumbfounded. Tord couldn't be dead. Tears filled his eyes, and a sob ripped it's way from his throat.

 

Matt had been too busy to watch the television with Edd, but hearing the sob made him drop what he'd been doing, quite literally, and ran out to see what was wrong. It resulted in him holding a shaking, crying Edd, explaining to him through sobs and shakey, raspy breaths that Tord was dead. He'd been executed on national television. The news made the ginger go silent, trying to comfort his pal as his mind raced and he silently mourned as well.

 

Patryk and Paul had been sitting in the Red Leader's office, their new work place. On the desk that used to be frequented by their comrade sat a radio. They were dead silent as they listened to the execution. They stole one glance at each other; they knew this would happen. They knew Tord would have been executed in the end. The reason they let him be executed by national security was to keep the heat off the Army for a chance to recover. They felt guilty about it, but they tried reasoning that the Army was Tord's pride and joy; he'd want it to continue on, right? It didn't help the guilt and regret from worming into their minds. They'd killed Tord in the end.

 

Tom had been sitting in his room. He had the television off, but the radio had been playing in the background. He wasn't drunk. He had been plucking away mindlessly on Suzan, no song in mind. The interruption of the emergency broadcast brought the alcoholic to reality, and he turned his head to look at the radio on the table beside him. He was silent as he listened to his old enemy's execution. He wasn't happy about it. He felt . . . well, hollow was a good word for it. He wondered how Tord was caught. He wondered how he survived the harpoon. A part of him was glad he didn't directly kill him. It was a thought that had been nagging at him ceaselessly. By the end on the broadcast, his aimless plucking had ended. He set his worn guitar to the side, got up and walked to the kitchen. Opening a cabinet, he retrieved a bottle of Smirnoff. He unscrewed the cap, closing his eyes as he drank straight from the bottle. Reality sunk in as the liquid burned down his throat; Tord was dead.

 

_Tord was dead._


	3. Chapter 3

It was a quiet night so far. Then again, ever since Tord joined the stars, the nights were always dreadfully silent. It was as if the silence sang to Tom, sang a song of solitude and regrets, of death and of peace. He was sitting on his window sill, his dark eyes looking up into the peaceful, starry sky. The stars- they always reminded him of his love. Tord was always so happy talking about them; his eyes always lit up and glimmered as if the stars had heard him. He was a star, back then and now. 

The Kittyboy wondered which star was his past and only love; he hoped it was the brightest one in the sky. His Starboy was the brightest in the room, and the brightest in the sky now. 

His fingers plucked at his guitar, aimlessly at first, before they began playing an all too familiar tune. First, he only hummed. Soon, his soft voice joined the chords. "Hello there, the Angel from my nightmare- the shadow in the background of the morgue . . ." He found himself lost in the song, tears pricking his eyes as he continued looking into the sky. 

The stars seemed to glitter in his tears as they slid down his cheeks at the turn of the second verse. "Where are you? And I'm so sorry, I cannot sleep, I cannot dream, tonight . . ." 

Nobody in the neighborhood would interrupt him; this had become a normal occurance, the blue hoodied teenage boy singing into the late hours of the night, the stars being his only audience. "I miss you, I miss you . . ." His voice didn't waver as he sang to the sound of his guitar. It was as if the night went still, to listen to him mourn his lover lost.

How could he have known Starboy listened every time?

The man made of stardust listened every night. He watched Tom always, he wept when Tom wept, he smiled when Tom smiled, as rare as that may be. His heart seemed to break as he listened to the sad song, knowing Tom wasn't moving on. His kittyboy was singing for him, and he couldn't help but sing along. His voice seemed to glitter in the night sky, tears of stardust slipping from his heterochromatic eyes. 

"Don't waste your time on me, you're already the voice inside my head . . ." He knew kittyboy wouldn't hear him. He knew kittyboy thought he was alone. He was never alone.

Starboy was always there, watching over his love at every passing moment. It was all he could do, as he waited for his Kittyboy to join him amongst the stars.

It was the only place they would be safe and untouchable.


	4. Chapter 4

Being blasted from the sky wasn't the last time the trio would have seen Tord. None of them knew it at the time, but they would see him once more soon.

Tord had a little side project going on at the army base since before he'd left to retrieve his robot stashed under the house. While a certain pain in his ass threw a wrench- or, rather a harpoon- into that plan, the Leader was more than delighted to learn his other project had been finished while he was away. 

It was a new breakthrough to help his cause.

The first thing to happen was directly related to him; he was rushed to the med bay upon arrival to the base, and had immediately undergone surgery. His right arm was amputated, but another side project completed before he'd left came in handy. A robotic arm replaced the lost biological one, a plate replacing his shoulder. It was connected to his nerve endings, and when his arm was hooked in, he could control it just as he could his left.

His eye was much too damaged to do anything with, so he only covered the damage with an eyepatch.

He was required to stay in the med bay for a few days afterward, despite his protests, so the medics could make sure he was recovering correctly. They hadn't had too many patients like Tord, and they had to make sure there wouldn't be side affects to having a robot arm grafted onto your body.

As soon as he could, he returned to his quarters, looking over old plans and notes he had scattered on his desk and his bulletin board. With a scoff, he pushed most of the papers on the worn surface to the side, not bothering with the ones that fell to the floor. He then called in the scientists he had working on his newest side project.

There were four in total; two men and two women. The one in charge of the project stepped forward, unease clearly readable by the way she held herself in front of Tord.

He demanded the information gathered, and with help of her three companions, they explained the entire project to him, and all the research they've gathered. The process was nearly perfected, they said, and they only needed a bit more time to negate the side effects. 

Tord nodded, dismissing them. He could start the next phase while they were working. 

He turned in his chair, looking at the map hanging behind him with concentration. Finally, a smirk broke from his lips, though his right side couldn't be read all that much. His lips on his left had pulled back to reveal a sharpened canine, however, and the glint in his eye hardened.

Within minutes, he called in his most trusted soldiers, Patryk and Paul.

The partners reported in immediately, standing before their leader with their postures erect and their expressions void of emotion. He looked them both over before explaining the basics of their mission; they were to assemble a small group of soldiers of their choosing to retrieve three targets. Upon retrieval, they were to bring them back to the base immediately. None of them were to be harmed in the process, and he'd personally deal with whomever damaged the targets.

Pat nodded his understanding, and Paul was more subtle with it but he, too, understood the importance of such a task. Satisfied, the Red Leader dismissed them to prepare their team and whatever they'd need to retrieve the targets.

 

They returned two days later. Their arrival was much anticipated, and the team of soldiers they'd brought immediately unloaded the three unconscious men from the back of the armored van they'd left in. The targets were brought to the labs on the lower levels of the base, on Tord's orders.

The Leader and his two soldiers had front row seats to the execution of his latest side project. It was the conversion of their mental state to one of a soldier's. To put it simply, mind control, or brainwashing. From the other side of a one way glass window, the trio watched as the subjects regained consciousness. They were confused, S-TR-B attempted fighting the restrains he was put in, most likely to fight the scientist in the room. S-EG-G and S-MH-P didn't fight too much. The most they did was a jerk against the metal, and questions that weren't answered. Tord left them to the scientists with a smirk on his lips, and a glint in his eyes.

 

The first to break was S-MH-P. The call came through the intercom, the static interrupted by a brisk message. _'Red Leader, you are needed in Lab L-4 immediately.'_ He'd stopped what he was doing, the pen dropping to the desk as he stood. He wasn't doing anything of much importance, not when he was being called in for his side project.

He walked briskly through the base, soldiers parting for him and giving him either nods of acknowledgement or brisk salutes. He didn't pay them much mind.

All in all, it took about six minutes to get through the base to the lab he was needed in. The moment he stepped in, an assistant came up to him with a clipboard in hand. They escorted him into the room where the large, ginger man was sitting. There wasn't a flash of his old self in his eyes, and upon spitting Tord, the narcissist raised his hand into a salute.

Tord smirked. 

"At ease, Soldier."

 

The second to break had been S-EG-G. The process had gone almost the same as before, Tord entering and being saluted. This time, the man greeted him with a 'Sir', and the Red Leader couldn't have been more content.

 

The last to break, unsurprisingly, was S-TR-B. Tord was more apprehensive as he made his appearance in the room, but the smaller man before him didn't raise his fist to strike. He only gave the subtlest nod, and an emotionless "Red Leader."

The general held a soft grin, that grin peeling back his lips on the left side of his face to reveal a sharpened canine. 

"Thomas."


	5. Chapter 5

He wasn't even sure when it all started. At first, only a petal or two would slide their way out of his mouth, much to his confusion, and drift their way lazily to the ground. No big deal at first, right? He wasnt sure where they came from or why, but he hadn't put thought to them.

That was his first mistake.

He hadn't been aware of his feelings for his best friend at the time. They were together most of the group of four they had going on, but everyone knew since high school they'd been exceptionally close. It wasnt that surprising to hear of their latest stunt on school grounds, or defacing some building. They'd broken into the school once or twice, into the teachers lounges. That was an interesting story, finding out what they'd done to everyone's least favorite teacher of the building.

They'd had detention for three days after that.

To tell which of the two was the worse influence was hard. They both seemed equally as troublesome, at least together, and their plots and pranks seemed to be split evenly between them. To say they were inseparable was an understatement.

Nobody really bothered with them, nor did they really fit into the existing cliques that ruled the building. It wasnt really a surprise they created their own.

Their clique grew to three once a certain eyeless teen who smelled vaguely like pineapple at all times joined. He seemed to fit right in with the Norwegian exchange student and the Cola loving Brit. Their reign of terror, of course, only grew with the extra set of hands and ideas. 

Next came the pale ginger with a vanity to make anyone realize they practically hated themselves next to him. He may not have been the brightest of them all, but his height and his compliance to their schemes made him an acceptable member as well.

The clique seemed to stay at four after that, no one really coming close to them. They were trouble makers, and no one really contributed them to much more than pranks that maybe go too far every once in a while.

That was fine with them.

They'd pooled the money they'd gotten from odd jobs and favors they'd done for others to get an apartment together after they'd graduated.

The leader of their ragtag group spent countless nights working on animations and comics, usually ending up asleep over the art tablet his parents had gotten him for his eighteenth birthday in acceptance of his dream to become an artist.

The man who smelled of pineapple and more than frequently wore blue didn't seem to really do much, not at first. He'd picked up the unhealthy habit of alcoholism fairly early on, and many nights ended with him passed out on the cough with a horridly bad movie playing.

The ginger had pursued a modeling career, and surprisingly enough, he had made it out fairly successful already. It didn't help his vanity or his obsession with surrounding himself in mirrors and pictures of himself.

As for the Norski? He'd picked up the habit of inventing, at first tinkering away in the backyard. At night, however, he found himself making renovations to the house the four lived in, and by the end of it he'd created an entire lab behind the wall in his room.

Despite the varying interests, the four remained close in the years ensuing their graduation. They still got into misadventures, trouble, and quite frankly, had quite the time doing so.

Tord and Edd stayed incredibly close the entire time.

And that's how the flora problem started.

He found himself coughing up a petal or two, but it wasn't that big of a deal. He only started putting mind to it when it became worse. It's worsening was subtle at first, more than a few petals coming up.

From the petals it escalated to an occasional leaf, or almost fern looking plant, albeit small. They were all small.

Next came the tiny flowers. Dandelions, forget-me-nots, and a variety of small flowers came from his coughs every so often.

From that point on, it seemed to happen more when he was around Edd. It was becoming troubling, as he did his best to keep it hidden from his housemates, Edd especially. Why he felt like this . . . inconvenience had to be hidden, he wasn't sure. He knew it probably wasn't a healthy thing.

He'd even coughed up a rose once. It was a soft green and yellow hue, stained and dripping bright blood red as it fell to the floor. He'd stared at it, wide eyed, as blood dripped lazily from the petals and his own mouth onto the floor of his bedroom.

It had gotten so bad, with time, that even being near edd sent the Norski into a bloody, floral coughing fit. That's when the rift happened.

He separated himself from the man who had been his best friend, unable to face him with the knowledge that he hacked up flowers seeing him, or even thinking his name.

With his newfound alone time, he worked on finding the disease he had. It had to be a disease. It wasnt really hard to find his answer, but his heart plummeted when he got it.

It was the hanahaki disease.

He was harboring a flower in his lungs.

As he discovered more, a feeling of dread filled him. His time was limited. Those who were born with the disease were born with a plant that, essentially, was a parasite. It was leeching off him, and it was slowly killing him, bit by bit.

As if to punctuate that point, a petal came up, the velvety lettuce like texture and bitter flavor making its presence known from the back of his throat, like that unwanted guest at the corners of the party.

He spat it out, disgust flashing in his eyes as he watched the dark red, almost black petal drift to the desk, a droplet of crimson resting atop it like a dewdrop on early morning grass and leaves. It looked almost harmless, laying against the worn wood his computer lay atop.

There were a few ways to cure it. He needed the feelings he felt reciprocated, and he knew that wouldn't happen. Edd wouldn't like him that way back, that was obvious. Next was erasing all memory of Edd. He couldn't do that either, he'd be crushed. He couldn't forget Edd, after everything.

That left the third and final cure; having the roots, and the rest of the plant, surgically removed. That came with a price, however. He would loose all emotional attraction for Edd, and depending on the stage of its growth, all emotion at all. Hed be a cold, hard shell.

He didn't want to do that.

So he did the most logical thing in his situation- he waited it out, holed away from Edd and eventually even Tom and Matt. If they knew, they could tell Edd. Tord couldn't have that.

He cut out for months.

It was the turn of the third month before his door was practically kicked in. The man in the doorway was seething, teeth clenched and his eyeless sockets narrowed to mere slits. He didn't spot the man in red at first, and stormed into the room. He didn't care about the flora everywhere, though he did briefly wonder about it.

The room was dimly lit by the sunlight filtering in through the window shades. The floor was covered in varying hues of plant, from blues to reds to greens of the leaves, vines, and ferns. The vines had begun apparently crawling up the walls, the flowers coating nearly every available surface in the room. Petals were simply everywhere, and the stench of pollen hung in the air, mixing with a blend of flower scents so tightly woven it was difficult to pick out any exact plant. He didn't notice the blood at first.

Then his gaze fell onto the man hunched over the side of his petal covered mattress, his eyes wide as he held his stomach and side with one hand, the other over his mouth as he heaved up yet more flora, decorated nicely in hues of crimson. He was surrounded with the same pieces of plants, and all of a sudden the smell of blood could be picked apart from the mess of a smell from the room.

Tom looked like he was going to be sick. Without thinking, he turned and practically screamed for their friend, who had been becoming more and more depressed as the time Tord avoided him stretched on. Tord barely heard him over the ringing in his ears and trying to keep from vomiting his lungs, but he knew Tom was there.

He knew Edd was to be there shortly after.

He didn't do anything to really stop it, even as the petals, leaves, and flowers came to a stop and settled on the ground below him. He gasped for air, his head snapping in the direction of the man who spoke quietly to announce his presence, but it seemed to echo in his ears.

God it's been so long.

"Tord, what's happening?" There was worry laced through his voice, a concern that apparently never lessened since they'd been kids together. It nearly made Tord tear up hearing it once more, and regret hit him like a ton of bricks.

Edd found his place right beside him, not caring too much about the petals he was now sitting on, and wrapped his arms around the smaller male, pulling him to his chest and running his fingers through his hair. If tord hadn't finished throwing all the pent up petals up moments before, Edd would have been covered.

The most that came up was a few deep purple petals, and they slid off his tongue easily.

Neither knew exectly when the tears had started, but the Norwegian found hot droplets sliding down his cheeks as he clung to his best friend. His voice was strained as he spoke the words that screamed his death sentence. 

"Hanahaki disease."

Edd knew exectly what it was, what it ment, and his worried expression flashed pure fear. Is that why tord had been avoiding him, and the rest of them? Probably. He bit his lip as he rubbed the smaller male's back, trying to calm him as he tried calming down himself. 

Tord was dying. He was dying for someone who didn't love him back.

It took quite a while for the foreigner to calm down, and in that time he coughed up quite a bit more flora, much to Edd's concern. It was everywhere, it was an unhealthy amount.

How hadn't he smelled it through the door sooner?

He ran his fingers through tord's hair slowly, parting through the soft caramel blond locks, a small hum in his throat. Keep him calm. His brown eyes opened slowly to look down at the smaller male, who was brushing petals off Edd's lap with disgust in his emerald orbs.

He had to ask.

"Who is it?" Tord froze under his touch, and he was hit with a wave of anxiety; was he hot supposed to ask? He probably shouldn't have. He was about to apologize before the small male looked away, his voice quiet as he answered. 

"You, Edward Gold."

Edd's eyes widened, his stomach knotting with the confession. He was the one Tord had developed a love for? A love he was dying because of? _He_ was the one Tord was dying for?

He bit his lip, the silence stretching much too long. How was he supposed to react to this? Tord was his best friend, since highschool. He'd never felt more for him than platonic affection. How long had Tord been feeling this way? Almost three months, at least.

It all made sense, why he had distanced himself from Edd.

Tears filled brown orbs usually sparkling with an animated glint, but now they were dulled, solemn. "Tord . . I-" He swallowed hard, unable to put his thoughts to words. He loved Tord, yes, but . . "I don't feel the same."

To say he wasn't expecting that would have been a lie. He knew Edd wouldn't like him back the way he did. They had been best friends for years, after all. Maybe edd wasn't into guys anyway. It didn't matter much. What he didn't expect was his body's reaction to the rejection.

His body jerked away from edd, ripping him from the larger man's arms, and his arms wrapped around his torso. His left hand clawed at his side as his right flew up to his neck, clutching his flesh as he doubled over. His body was wracked with violent shudders as he retched an incredible amount of plant life. He could barely breathe as he expelled a variety of petals, leaves, vines, and flowers. Of course, they were stained and dipped with crimson, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

There may have been a rose in there.

Edd didn't know what to do, how to help, but in the back of his mind he knew that he had _caused that_. He reached for tord, who jerked further away as he tried his damnest not to throw up one of his lungs. That's what it felt like he was about to do, after all. That's where the parasite was rooted. Maybe he should cough up a lung.

The Cola man faltered, chewing his lip as he watched his best friend cough and bleed. Was there nothing he could do? Tord was clutching to the wall, gasping for his breath, and finally, _finally_ , the flowers stopped.

"Tord, let me help you," Edd nearly pled, and with a hesitancy unlike him, the Norwegian nodded.

His disease didn't lesson from that point. It really only left tord heartbroken- although he already knew he'd never be loved back, not by Edd- and Edd feeling so _guilty_. The rift grew between Tord and his three companions, and no matter how much they asked him to fill out the papers for the operation, he refused.

To have one's flower removed surgically to spare your own life was heavily stigmatized. How would one be so selfish as to get rid of feelings for a person so easily, just to continue living? That wasn't the reason Tord refused, even if the other three believed that to be so.

Tord left a month later.

It was last minute, but it took him only a few days for everything to be packed, and his lab well hidden from his companions. His entire room had been cleared of the flora that had been taking it over, quicker as the days stretched longer.

He said it was to make it in the big city, to follow his dreams and make a name for himself. A white lie, an easily believed one. He didn't expect much, but on his day of departure his housemates came out to say goodbye.

"Goodbye!"

"Good luck!"

"Good riddance."

He hadn't expected much more from Tom, there had been a deeper rift between him and the blue clad Brit than the rest, and it even grew to the point where Tord was certain the alcoholic hated him. It was to be expected by now, and he didn't think much of it.

This was supposed to be the last he saw of his friends, in person at least.

He'd left straight for the army he'd enlisted in. He was a mere sharpshooter, coupled with a pilot and a copilot duo. The three proved to be a deadly team, but it wasn't enough for the diseased male. A desire for power was rooted deep inside him, even deeper than the flower that was slowly killing him. 

He was a Deadman either way he looked at it, so he pursued that power he desired. 

He had a small group of soldiers loyal to him, which was more than enough. He only needed fear from the rest, after all. Their current leader was too weak a link for the army anyway, and so he did the entirely of the army a favor by killing him. 

He had it done in secret, and he'd been promoted high enough for the army to go to him had anything _unfortunate_ happened to the current leader. He had been second in command.

The assassination was too easy, and upon arriving to the base with four men missing and an easy lie spun, he was Leader. 

It still wasn't enough.

He planned to take over the world, to spread his idealism across the globe. He would be unstoppable. He would be a god.

At first, he had kept in contact with Edd over text, Edd had kept him updated on their adventures and Tord had reassured them that he was pursuing his dreams, and that he was safe and doing well.

The messages began being exchanged less and less after a while. He would first go days without responding, then weeks. Eventually, he just stopped. He got rid of the phone he had, and gotten a new one.

Edd's number was still in it, but he didn't touch it again.

Not for another three years, that is. 

By the beginning of the third year, his health had deteriorated quite a bit. His skin had become much too pale, and his Hanahaki was nearing the final stages of its process. Even had he not thought of Edd, he would still cough up enough flowers to have him doubling over, barely able to get through meetings without flowers coming up.

It had to stop.

He finally let the doctors remove the roots from his lungs, but the damage had already been done well before the operation. Physically he grew healthy once more, but his mind was altered. His emotions had been removed along with the flower, leaving him a colder and even more ruthless leader than before.

Most of the soldiers in the base feared him, and feared hearing the distinctive clicking of his heeled boots against the floors of the base. No one dared betray him, not after he'd delt with a squad of traitors himself. It was perfectly clear not to cross him. 

He still planned for world domination, and no one was to stop him. 

His plan was a simple one, he'd came up with it when he spotted his old friend's number once more. He smiled, though it was a borderline smirk. He had left something of his back at Edd's house, and he needed to get it back.

He sent Edd a message that night, telling him he was coming back into town. Edd's reply was sooner than he expected, and he was pleasantly surprised to find out that he hadn't changed numbers in the almost four years he'd been gone.

Edd offered him a place to stay, and they texted most of that night into the early hours of the morning before Tord had told him he needed to go.

Already, his plan was going well. 

He didn't pack much, as he knew it was to be a short mission. Retrieve the goods, then leave. It wasnt too hard.

He left nearly a week later, and arrived to his old residence mid afternoon.

Apparently Edd hadn't changed the locks on the doors either, since his key fit right in and unlocked it. He headed straight for his old room. It was locked, which was strange. He'd never had locks on the outside before.

He didn't put thought to it, instead trying to pick the locks with a small lockpicking set he'd brought along with him. What he hadn't expected was Tom to arrive, carrying harpoons, and upon seeing him- or, his figure in the shadow of the halls- pointing one of the spear-looking pieces of metal right at him.

"Who goes there?" His voice rang out clear, and a sudden wave of what might have been nostalgia hit the Red Leader at the familiarity of the voice. He dropped his lockpick before he stepped into the light, giving the Brit a signature grin.

"Hello, old friend."

Tom gasped, dropping his harpoon. It clattered to the ground just like the rest of them, and within moments Edd had appeared, drawn by the commotion. Upon spotting the Norski, he smiled, approaching the two men.

"Tord!" Within mere moments Tord found himself in his friend's embrace, his expression changing to a blank one instead of the grin he held moments before. "Welcome back!"

That's when Tom chimed in, confusion in his voice. "Welcome back?"

Tord's grin reappeared, and with Edd's arm around his shoulders, he spoke up. "I hope you don't mind me letting myself in."

Matt appeared down the hallway, finishing a cookie before returning the grin with a smile. "No, no, not at all! . . . Who are you?" His smile faded to a frown as he looked the shorter man over.

"It's me, Tord." Matt shook his head.

"He used to live here?" Edd offered, to which the ginger only replied with an 'uhh-'.

Tom glared at the Norwegian, nearly growling his response. "Yeah. _Used_ to." Once more it was met with an 'uhh.'

"You . . . Really don't remember?" Tord asked, eyebrows knotting together in confusion. 

Tom didn't care about Matt's troubles remembering who Tord was. He had bigger issues, and they were in the form of a foreigner who disappeared for four years standing before him.

"Why are you here?" He asked, not bothering to hide the disgusted tone to his voice. It was entirely clear he wasn't happy with his old housemate's sudden reappearance.

It was Edd who answered. "Tom, don't be so rude. I told you he was coming last week." By that point Tord wandered into the bare living room, immediately noticing the lack of sofas. Before Tom could answer, the guest threw his question over his shoulder to Edd.

"What happened to the sofa?"

Turning away from Tom, the Cola lover smiled as he answered. "Tom sold it to some pirates yesterday." 

The pineapple man scoffed, watching as Tord took a small device from his pocket, pressed the button, and tossed it to the floor.

The little metal box opened, and out of it a bright red sofa appeared, a metal table and a lamp on either side of it. Upon spotting it, both Edd and Matt grinned, a two-man chorus of 'Yay, sofa!' following shortly after. 

"What is that?" Tom asked, and Tord threw another small box to him. He fumbled to catch it, but once he did he inspected it, his mouth set into a frown.

"Oh, just something I invented," Tord chuckled, pressing a button on the small remote in his pocket to activate the box, a chair coming out and landing atop Tom. The Norwegian's chuckle persisted as he found himself sitting in the chair his rival was crawling out of.

Tom scoffed up at him, and in a clearly annoyed tone, he nearly spat his next question. "Great. When are you leaving?"

The question took the General by surprise, and he could only stammer out, "Ah- Leaving?" He regained his composure before answering the question. "I'm moving in."

Toms reaction was not a pleasant one, and he immediately took Edd to the side, demanding for Tord to leave. It took a bit of persuasion for Edd to get Tom to even drop the topic, telling him they'd talk about it later. 

The rest of that day was spent rekindling the bond the four shared before Tord's disappearance, before the hanahaki that tore them apart. Tom was more or less excluded from the bonding moment, he still seemed to hate Tord for whatever mysterious thing he did four years ago.

Tord wasn't too worried about it.

He was more focused on his mission, and was waiting for the moment to get into his old room. He pushed Tom as far to the limit as he could without alerting Edd to his intentions, and to his absolute delight, it worked.

One sofa-hole later, the alcoholic was storming down the road, not to be heard from again. Or, that was the plan at least, for Tord. Tom was the only real threat to his mission, and he was gone now.

His chance to retrieve his target came while he, Edd and Matt had gone to the grocery store. One fake phone call later, he found himself back at home, opening the wall to his secret lab for the first time in what felt like forever. He smirked, approaching the button in the middle of the room. 

"At last," He murmured to himself, "I will be complete again." His moment of triumph was interrupted by an annoyingly familiar voice yelling his name, almost like that single gnat you couldn't rid yourself of, buzzing around your head.

"Tom." He turned to face the smaller man. "What are you doing here?" The blue clad man was holding up a Wanted poster, holding it up to look at Tord side by poster side.

"I could say the same to you," He growled, "What are _you_ doing here? Four years, Tord. _Four years._ " 

Tord rolled his eyes, unamused.

"You had Edd thinking you were dead. You had us _all_ thinking you were dead. I was hoping you were." Anger practically radiated off the unwanted guest, and the Norwegian only laughed.

"Alright, alright. You got me, Thomas." He placed his hand on the button. "I only returned for something I had left." He pressed the button down, and before Tom could ask what it was, a ceiling panel opened and a canister lowered, turning to drop a general's hat upon Tord's head.

The smirk he held spoke loud and clear; it wasnt just his hat he'd come back for. A tube came up from the floor, and the floor beneath him gave way, sending him shooting down, a dark laugh echoing.

He grabbed the controls to the war machine as soon as he plopped down into the seat, a satisfied glint in his eyes. Lights flashed and sirens blared as the final pieces were put onto the robot, and the ground to the backyard opened up to let the robot out.

He immediately opened fire on the house, trying to get rid of the menace Tom always was, and will be with his luck. 

He hadn't been counting on Edd and Matt to come back so soon, but he stopped short when the tallest of the four yelled up to him.

"Tord! What's going on?"

He answered near immediately, with a noncommittal, "Sorry Edd, I couldn't leave this behind. Thanks for holding onto it for me." 

The man in green looked hurt, and Tord found he couldn't find it within himself to care anymore. That part of him was removed with the flower that would have killed him.

He was a whole new man than the Tord his old companions once knew.

"I- I thought we were friends!"

"Pff-" He laughed at that. "Friends? What would I need friends for? I've got this! I'm _unstoppable_!" His laugh only grew, before Tom interrupted it.

He still wasn't _dead_?

"Hey! Sunshine Lollipops! Take a seat!" With that, the threw another small box, which transformed mid air into a seat. It hit the robot and fell to the ground, useless.

With a scoff and a glare, the Norski shouted back. "Oh, just shut up!" With the push of a button, the robots right arm transformed into a rocket launcher, and a missile was launched into the house.

He wasn't planning on staying after that. He turned, taking off, before he was once again stopped, this time by Matt controlling his robot from the ground. He was mashing buttons, Edd joining soon after, and Tord had forgotten just why he'd put the microfists into the cockpit, but he hated himself for it.

"Jon?" Eduardo's distressed voice distracted them, and taking that moment of confusion, Tord vaporized the control panel with a concentrated lazer. He huffed shortly after, turning away from them. 

"Sorry, but I really must be going." His tone was flat, emotionless. "So long, old friends."

From the rubble of the house came an angered response. "I am _not_ your friend!" As if to punctuate that statement, Tom launched a harpoon from the harpoon gun he'd gotten from the pirates, the metal weapon piercing through the robot and narrowly missing tord's body from his seat in the cockpit. 

Once again he was surrounded by the blaring of alarms, and he frantically tried preventing the machine from exploding. 

He didn't succeed, and within moments was blasted from the sky, crashing down to the earth in what should have been his gruesome demise. 

He pulled himself out of the wreck of a robot, only able to use one arm, and stood. He was shakey on his feet, his ears ringing as he bled from the torn up side of his face and his right arm. He couldn't hear the car his pilot and copilot were driving, but he turned his head just enough to know they were there.

Picking up a robot arm that had survived the wreck, he looked over the cliff to the wreckage he'd left behind in the pursuit of power. He felt . . . Nothing. No guilt, no remorse. He was past the point of no return.

Without turning to Patryk and Paul, he spoke, his voice void of any and all emotion. It was a tone they knew all too well. "Mission failed." He didn't speak again after that, turning away from the remains of his past to instead walk to the car. The partners said nothing, instead wordlessly following their leader.

Tord hadn't noticed the few flower petals where the arm had been resting, nor noticed them as the wind kicked up, blowing three tiny petals over the car and off the cliff.


	6. Chapter 6

It had started as a simple bicker between the two parties, just like it used to be. Just like old times, Tord would have said. He and his rival shot insults and mostly empty threats back and forth to one another, tord not really thinking too much of it. It wasn’t uncommon for the two males to practically go for each other’s throats, it was how their relationship worked. It was common knowledge they rarely saw eye-to-eye on anything-- if anything. 

It was unclear when the simple almost mindless bickering escalated to more, much more, and quickly. Soon enough the two were closer, the Leader narrowly taller than the sharpshooting assassin he’d had enlisted into his army. The insults took a turn to the worst, both men poking at sore spots, ripping at sensitive topics like their lives depended on it. Perhaps they did.

Both men were armed, of course, and all of a sudden, the empty threats didn’t seem so empty anymore. They both were all too familiar with cutting off emotion to pull the trigger, and both could easily dehumanize their target to the point where they didn’t seem like much more than a simple object, a target. Neither moved for their weapons, not yet.

That was probably a good thing.

“You’re a failure as a ‘Leader’,” came the sharp hiss from the smaller soldier, the lights on his visor narrowing as his gaze did. He was growling, lips pulled back in a snarl as he stared down the man he had known for so long-- too long.

God, he hated that Communist with everything he could possibly hate with; he resented his existence and he absolutely despised the army, the soldiers, and the reason they were fighting. He hated being forced to fight for _Tord_ , of all people, and his ridiculously asinine notion of world domination. He didn’t care about it, and he didn’t put mind to the way his Leader seemed to tense up, nor the twitch of his lips on the left side of his face.

He couldn’t move his right half, the flesh marred and nerves dead, muscles long since ripped to shreds.

Tord refused to let show the words hit a particularly sensitive spot, piercing it and reminding him that no matter how strong he was, how emotionless he seemed to his army, nor how many people- innocent people- he’s killed, dehumanizing them and even receiving pleasure from the utter chaos his army left behind, he was still nothing more than a human.

“No matter how high and mighty you may think yourself,” Thomas continued, tongue spitting words that may as well have been razor blades, his voice holding such a dark, sickening sense of absolute honesty that they seemed even sharper. “You’re no god, you’re just like the rest of us.” He took a step forward, dangerously close to his General’s face. “You’re just like _me_.” Tord could smell the alcoholic’s breath, and to no surprise, all he could smell was vodka. Smirnoff, to be precise.

It wasn’t that uncommon, but it had been a while since he smelled so _much_. How long had it been since it had been this strong? A long while.

“You have this _ridiculous_ idea that you can rule the fucking world, but you know what? You’ll never be able to. You’re just like the rest of us.” Tord didn’t back down from the soldier in his face, knowing full-well not to dare show weakness to Thomas. It was one of the perks of living with him for years, even if they couldn’t stand one another.

“You’re nothing more than a backstabber,” he nearly spat, and upon that statement, the Leader flinched. “You’ve thrown us away like we were _nothing_ , and for _what_?” Tord’s lips-- the left side, that is-- pulled into the faintest grimace. “Your precious robot?” There was a scoff, and Tom rolled his eyes; that very robot was the one he so easily destroyed with a simple harpoon, and he was the one who, ultimately, took Tord’s arm, and destroyed the right side of his body.

“You’ve ruined our lives,” there was the softest intake of breath, though it was undetected by the Brit. “You’ve done nothing but hurt us, you hurt Edd and Matt.” _You hurt me_ , was the unspoken addition to that statement. The Norwegian’s response was a single, breathed ‘no’.

Tom’s voice was rising higher as he spoke, and his heated, hate filled words pierced through the walls Tord had long since put up, they pierced through his heart and brain, digging deep into the very heart of his being. It hurt, and he hated it. It made him weak. It made him human.

“You’ve done nothing but be a nuisance since you moved in the first time, you haven’t changed. You’re still the gun fanatic asshole with the delusion of power, but you know what, Larson? You’re nothing. You have nothing.” Uttering such things to Tord, of all people, was a death wish; everyone in the army knew that. Tom didn’t care; he didn’t care if he died. Hell, he’d be _glad_ to die.

Tord’s gun was in his hands, cocked and ready to shoot someone, to shoot Tom. The Brit didn’t seem fazed by the promise of death, and he scoffed. “You won’t pull that trigger, not on me.” Tord growled. “You’re too weak to kill me, _Sir_.” Hatred boiled in his veins and he grit his teeth together, teeth so much blunter than the sharpened ones of the Leader.

The gun raised, and pointed at Tom, even resting upon his forehead. The leader’s metal finger from his right hand pulled only the slightest bit at the trigger, barely keeping it from unloading the bullet in the chamber into the sharpshooter’s head. “Don’t make me kill you, Ridgewell.” The man with the dark blue buttondown and black sweater refused to acknowledge his own tensing, if only slightly, before he replied with just as much venom dripping from his words as before. “Kill me. Do it. _Pull the trigger, Sir_.” The last sentence was spoken with so much intensity it even took Tord back.

He scoffed, his eye narrowing to a slit as he met the green lights upon the visor’s screen that served as the Jehovah’s Witness’ eyes. The soldier didn’t stop, however. “You act so fucking tough but you’re even more of a coward than I am, Larson. I can’t even pity how stupid you are, how weak you are. You’re more of a failure than I am, and we both know full well I’m just a deadbeat alcoholic who can’t keep his shit together!” He pushed his head closer to the barrel of the gun. “So if you’re so much better than me, _kill me_.” 

Was he begging for death? Not quite. He knew that Tord wouldn’t kill him- no, couldn’t kill him. He was taunting the Communist, forcing him to realize that the Brit was right; and to Tord’s horror, he was doing exactly what Tom wanted. “Pull the trigger, Tord. Do it.”

Tord hissed, and something in him snapped; his arm drew back, and without taking his eyes from Tom, a single shot rang out through the room.

Thomas stumbled back, his eyes wide. Shock was written across his face as he watched Tord, watched his Leader fall to the ground, dead within moments. His blood was seeping into the red carpeting, candy red staining the original scarlet color. The man’s heart was pounding, his pulse echoing uncomfortably loud in his ears. It was the only thing disrupting the silence that ensued the Leader’s suicide.

Tom hesitated. What should he do? What _can_ he do? He just witnessed Tord kill himself, technically on his own provocation. Tom killed him. Sure, he didn’t pull the trigger, but that didn’t really matter. His eyes were trained on the gun that clattered to the ground; he knew that gun. Tord always had that gun, for as long as the soldier could remember.

He knew this would look bad if anyone walked in. tom wore gloves, so they couldn’t extract his fingerprints from the gun, and everyone knew how Thomas and Tord went for each other’s throats constantly. Who’s to say Tom didn’t finally snap? Hed be executed on the spot for treason, he knew. Fear can make a man do stupid things, and that’s exactly what happened this time around. He tore his gaze from the corpse and turned on his heel.

_And he ran._


End file.
